


The Anatomy of Being

by ZodiacRiver



Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events - Lemony Snicket
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, Fluff, Love Confessions, Purple Prose, Romance, they are happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-09-05 14:46:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16812778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZodiacRiver/pseuds/ZodiacRiver
Summary: The essence of poetry.





	1. For Something I Know Too Well To Name

**Author's Note:**

> Ohhhh my i really felt like writing some violet/isadora this week, and i have the chance to pen it down just now. 
> 
> This is based on Shinji Moon's 'The Anatomy of Being', so all of the chapter titles are also her poem titles, and in each story, there are some lines from the concerned poem.

“Modern poets often don’t publicize their real names,” Isadora explains. She is scribbling little flowers on the margins of a paper, where ink had bled there to form a living poem about whatever, about anything and everything at all. “They value anonymity the most.”

“Why?” Violet asks. Her hand unconsciously caresses Isadora’s, in fleeting touches and delicate strokes. Beneath the suspension of the light coming from the desk lamp, Isadora’s face is glowing. It is an ethereal view. Something that Physics cannot explain. When Isadora looks up at her, with those huge, dark eyes, Violet understands that maybe there truly are things in this universe so unworldly, so immortal that no science can comprehend. 

“It’s dangerous for people to know who you are, when you have eloquently penned down your thoughts, because the mind is such a place that it should be your own, not shared like a piece of cake in a party,” she looks away now, averting her eyes from Violet, as if she is embarrassed. “A poet is a soldier, we are brave enough to turn each other into metaphors, and months into men.”

“How about you? What would you name yourself as?”

The question floats in the air. Isadora smiles. It’s a small gesture, a weak action, but enough to stretch the corners of Violet’s lips into an equally lovely beam. 

“Just Isadora.”


	2. The Importance of Color

Violet often wonders about the tint in Isadora’s eyes. She doesn’t know much about the art of colors, but she is sure that the color of Isadora’s eyes are unfathomable. They are supposedly black, but they are so much more and so much less than just black. In another point of view, they are brown. Not brown, no. Violet decides brown isn’t exact. They are a mixture of this and that, of warm and cool colors at the same time. Perhaps they are grey, like the fur of an alpha wolf, but grey is too feral, contrary to the softness of her eyes.

Whatever shade it is, though, they are beautiful. Violet thinks she should probably ask Klaus for a more accurate synonym for ‘beautiful’, because that isn’t really it. Her eyes don’t shine or sparkle, not at all like that; they don’t fit even to Isadora’s own poetic analogies. They are just normal eyes. But they are kind. It fills Violet’s heart with love, and she finds herself sighing in content every time those eyes lock with hers. They are like the fireplace in the middle of a harsh winter; warm and calming, securing safety for everyone. 

Violet asks her what color she thinks it is.

Isadora only puts her hand on Violet’s cheek, then folds herself into sleep, leaving her feeling as if her body were a hollow building on fire.

That color is, love.


	3. Questioning Without Answering

“I love you,” the words, all three of them, come out like a zealous prayer. They spill, embraced in passionate emotions. It is the verbal equivalent of a love letter. 

Violet is awestruck. She doesn’t expect for the sentence to roll out of her tongue so recklessly. There must be a puppeteer somewhere up there pulling the strings, driving Violet into this unavoidable situation. 

It is, indeed, inevitable. Crush becomes part of her blood, rushing in her veins, as steady as a river. And then love begins to assemble, part by part, brick by brick. Violet has created a lot of things, from simple inventions to more advanced ones, but the adoration that builds up isn’t her work of hand.

It’s Isadora’s.

Desperately, she clings onto Isadora’s arm, then her hand slides down to tangle itself with Isadora’s fingers. She is looking at her. Isadora will probably utter a witty line from one of her poems afterwards, but Violet tries to not think of it too far. Right now, the only poetry is Isadora. The way she bites her lip nervously, opening her mouth now and then to respond but never getting there, brushing her fingers against the skin of Violet’s palm—that’s poetry.

“Why?”

“Because,” Violet starts. She doesn’t end.

Isadora puts her free hand on her chest, then places it on Violet’s. “Here is my photosynthesizing heart,” she says. “It beats for you, as you drink your morning coffee, as you confess your love, forever.”


	4. A Thousand Paper Cranes

Violet watches as Isadora struggles to fold. Her hands shake, all the time making the wrong folds again and again. Soon, her papers are a wrinkled mess with mistake lines, but she made a quite decent paper crane nonetheless. 

“Why are you doing this?” Violet inquires. The question is her epitome of curiosity, because that evening, Isadora suddenly folds her sheets and sheets of poems into cranes.

“A thousand paper cranes to grant my wish,” is the answer. “A thousand paper cranes for me to hold your hand, your skin, the stones you’ve swallowed in your sleep.”

Violet replies with a smile. She loves it when Isadora suddenly babbles with her heart of a poet. Her words never fail to bring her down. She always speaks in a different voice when she’s reciting poetry; more melodic, her tone more saturated, like a song in the middle of a radio static. 

“I love your poems. Are you sure you are reducing them into these?”

“I’m not reducing them, Violet,” Isadora says, “I’m making paper cranes out of them.”

Violet laughs. It feels raw. “Same thing. We can’t read them anymore now. What are you going to do with these? All the beautiful things in this world, and yet you wish for something that trivial? If you had wanted me, all you had to do was ask.”

Isadora raises her hand to move a stray hair from Violet’s forehead. She then pinches her cheek lightly, followed by a small chuckle. “My wish,” she whispers, “has been granted.”


	5. “Why do you write poetry?”

“Because I have forgotten everything else,” Isadora answers Violet’s question. “I have forgotten everything else, when I’m with you. You are a dream, a scientific hypothesis that nobody has proved, a wonder. Because I have just discovered that your inventions, after all, are just the children of your memories, fragments of your old, nostalgic thoughts. Because you are the most honest verse I have written, the most candor writing I can pen. Because I can feel myself sighing to my knees. Because please. Because yes. Because you. Because this.”

There is a press of lips on lips, and Violet knows that she can sleep well tonight.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Please be kind, this is my first asoue fic TwT tell me what you think!!!


End file.
